


Debbie's 8

by bitterestbee



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/F, Gen, Horse Rustlin, Old West Heist, Petty Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 14:01:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15686862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterestbee/pseuds/bitterestbee
Summary: Debbie Ocean is out of prison and ready to take back what's hers and more, but she won't be able to do it alone.





	Debbie's 8

**Author's Note:**

> hello, i have not posted fanfic in over ten years so here's something to uhhhhhhhhh enjoy. updates whenever so hang around.

Deborah Ocean has a mind like a pocket watch. 

It helps her track the hours, minutes, every second she spends in her cell on her cot staring at the adobe ceiling. She tracks the imperfections in the material as her mind winds up. It’s a maze and she walks it over and over and over again, backtracking when she gets lost. She can reason it out - here’s where the dust collects and that was a leak - and eventually from the bumps and lines emerge shapes. 

The watch continues to tick.

Every movement of the second hand and she is performing another chore. She strips the cot and folds the bed clothes. She takes the bucket and bathes with a rag. No one is allowed to talk, yet she effectively communicates with those around her regardless. The women in the cells next to hers know they should watch her, the guard knows he shouldn’t test her, and the warden knows that he shouldn’t even think of looking the wrong way at any of the women in his charge. 

Seconds to days to years. She keeps her mind wound. It keeps ticking.

There is a day on the horizon she counts down to, a point she can see moving closer with every passing hour. She simplifies her time, breaks the waiting into units, smaller and smaller so that they’re easy to count. Boots on the rotten wooden floor, the clanging metal of slamming doors, the rhythm of life outside that filters through the high, barred window are all but echos of the pulse she focuses on. Her gears turn and she glides ever on.

Then finally the ticking stops.

They let her out and she squints in the sunlight, coat slung over her arm, ruined clothes doing little against the blazing sun, and she starts walking. She passes by the saloon where she has a few friends and walking by an open window she grabs the small amount of bills and pocket watch balanced precariously on the sill. The young woman, busy entertaining the unlucky gentleman, winks out of the corner of her eye and then is out of sight as Debbie rounds the corner.

She stops at the train crossing and watches as the heavy freight passes by, the sound of it echoing through five years of memories from her cot. She times it and once it passes she moves on. Soon enough she is riding west on a horse that went missing when no one was looking, in a work shirt and canvas trousers that had been left on the drying line for just a little too long.

At an outpost just before the river crossing she trades her coat for a rough map and supplies, filling her canteen before crossing. The horse is young and somewhat inexperienced but nothing she can’t handle. After three days of riding and camping she finally crests the hill and lays eyes on the cabin. And the smoke coming from the chimney.  
She’s cursing herself for not swiping a rifle when two children - one smaller than the other and the larger not possibly older than 10 - erupt from the house and begin chasing each other through the small garden. Debbie urges her horse closer and ambles from the tree line. The boy notices her first and watches as she approaches, holding out a hand to stop his sister from enthusiastically greeting her.

“Hello, kids. Your parents around?” The horse stops at the short wooden fence Debbie had erected a little over six years ago.

“Mama’s gone out,” replies the girl before her brother can stop her. He reprimands her and Debbie smiles.

“It’s okay, I’m not here to start trouble. How long have you lived here for?”

“Are you with the bank, miss?”

“Why you ask?”

“Well mama said not to talk to anyone from the bank. They haven’t come around here but back home they were always around.” 

Debbie flicks open her pocket watch. She’s been looking forward to a bath and a bed but she’s not about to risk a situation with a woman hellbent on avoiding debt collectors. They must have found her land and decided it was abandoned and she wasn’t about to begrudge them taking something that wasn’t theirs. Tit for tat.

“Mr. Miller helped us find this place!” blurts the girl, barely containing her excitement at a visitor.

 _Mr. Miller._ “God damnit, Louise!”

“Miss, please don’t curse around my sister. Mama hates it when she picks up swears.”

“Sorry. You kids get inside before dark. Give my best to your mom.” Debbie grips the reigns again, clicking and gently tugging. Horse and rider turn back to the tree line and as she rides she looks back to see the kids sitting on the fence watching her go.

She might not have her cabin, but she knows where she’ll be sleeping tonight.


End file.
